


White Smoke

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Corruption, Gen, Italy, M/M, Merlin/Freya - Freeform, Sibling Incest, church, fifteenth century, questionable morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Merlin does The Borgias. Short Renaissance story. It's 1492 and Pope Innocent VIII has died. While Cardinal Uther de Pendragon vies for the papal crown, his children watch it all unfold. As Arthur tries to shield them from the corruption of it all, destiny takes them somewhere else entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not going to be long, I promise.
> 
> Look at this art that merlocked18 created: [Life Choices homepage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10597950). It has bishop Arthur!

Rome, August, 1492

The sun shone with vigour over the streets of Rome, gilding tiled roofs, shapely marble statues and the half dilapidated monuments the ancients, founders of an empire, had left behind. Away from the dark and dank bridges, from which many a body was dumped into the depths of the river, even the murks of the Tiber glimmered. In the markets produce was rinsed with water to stop it from wilting. In the streets people wore but the lightest of fabrics, veils light as spun gossamer, tunics of the thinnest sort, gowns with the least of folds, while those who couldn't afford them had stripped to the bare minimum. Urchins went without their shoes, and workers without their shirts. In the grand houses servants had pulled the heavy damask curtains back and thrown open the doors in the hope of a breeze. But the wind didn't stir.

Unlike the grand houses, the Sistine Chapel was instead barred. A handful of Swiss Guards stood at attention at the doors, pikes and halberds at the ready, their blades glinting like new moons. Even the windows were stoned, so that no light filtered either in or out.

“What is going on?” Merlin asked him, as, after a long walk for which they'd dismissed their retinue, they passed by the Vatican steps. 

“Really, Merlin.” Arthur rubbed his knuckles across his skull, setting Merlin's curls dancing across his forehead. “You need me to explain everything.”

Merlin ducked out from under his arm, but not before having let Arthur put his hair in disarray. “You're my brother. If I don't ask you, who am I going to ask?”

That much was true. Arthur had a duty towards Merlin. Because Merlin was younger and in need of guidance. Because Merlin lived in a world of his own and needed to be kept acquainted with the rules of this one. Because Merlin didn't understand the art of ruling and would one day need to. Arthur was going to provide that tuition, and protection, because Merlin needed it in spades. Where would he be without Arthur? Besides, family ties came first with him. Couldn't not. Their clan was already so strange, the bonds that made it subsist so anomalous, that where would they be without each other's support? “All right, all right, I'm going to explain.” As a brother, it behove Arthur to put Merlin in his place as much as possible, to tease him with his superiority, to make him feel small with the weight of his experience. “Pope Innocent just died.”

“Yes, I know that.” Merlin gesticulated at the expanse of the city. “The news is on everybody's lips.”

“In that case you know a new pope must be elected.” Merlin was young, Arthur was aware, but not so much so that he shouldn't be aware of everything that was going on around them. After all church matters were politics, and they lived and breathed politics. “The college of cardinals elects him.”

“Yes.” Merlin looked to the Vatican Palace, with its array of windows facing St Peter's Square. “But why the guards?”

“To protect the College of Cardinals.” Arthur's lips twitched. “To make sure that the Cardinals' decisions are uninfluenced by outside interference.”

“Would they be?”

Arthur laughed a low laugh. Even before the late pope had died, church members had schemed to get their hands on titles, properties, and benefices. Loyalties had been negotiated to ensure the election. Even after all this scrabbling, the result was a toss up, because of shifting allegiances. But without that guard guaranteeing the independence of the vote, any election would be impossible. It would be doubted the moment it was made known. A schism might take place. It had happened before. “Believe me, Merlin,” he said, “there would be so much interfering blood would be shed.”

Merlin made a small noise in his throat, swallowed. “Is our father in danger?”

That was a question Arthur had asked himself countless times. Ever since he was old enough to understand, he'd probed the matter in his head. Rome was a dangerous city, and whoever had ambition in it, had to have nerves of steel, not to mention guts. Especially if they meant to rise. While their father had both in abundance that didn't mean he was immune from attacks. Vying for the papal crown, put him in more danger than others. “I don't know, Merlin.” Arthur wished he could reassure his brother, but how could he when he wasn't certain himself? He would never stoop to lie to him. “I'm sure he'll be prudent.”

People giving way for them, they moved across the square, and passed crowds of spectators waiting for an announcement of some kind, for news.

“I wish you could have voted,” Merlin said, as he walked past a cordon of people. “If you had, then Father would have what he wanted.”

Arthur sighed, steering Merlin clear of a gaggle of clamouring citizens. Learning that Merlin had their father down pat, that he was aware of his secret ambitions, was sad. He ought to have been kept apart from politics, at least for a few more years. He should have been allowed to enjoy naivety. But with Uther's calling, there was no chance of that. There hadn't been for Arthur. But Arthur had wished for something better for Merlin. “I'm only a bishop, Merlin. I'm not allowed to cast my vote in the ballot.”

“But you'll be a cardinal one day.” Merlin tugged at his bishop's robes, playing with the hem of his pellegrina. “Even if he doesn't make you one, you're too clever not to be promoted.”

Arthur ground his teeth. “The church is not my calling.” It had never been his choice. It had never been his ambition. Their father had chosen for them, a decision taken when they were each in their cradle. “I'd rather wield a sword.”

Merlin became thoughtful, silent, his head cast back and his eyes staring upwards, at the brightness of the heavens, of this lovely summer day. “It's not all it's cracked up to be.”

“You only say that because you don't like training.” 

Merlin coughed up a laugh. “That's only a little true, brother. But honestly...” Merlin's tone grew serious once more. “...the truth is I don't want to become a condottiero. I don't want to besiege towns and attack villages. I don't want to kill and loot.”

“Nobody wants that.” Arthur liked to think there was honour and dignity in the profession. Perhaps not in siege warfare as such or in the hiring of mercenaries, but one could become like a knight of old, a defender of the meek, a patron of the needy and vulnerable. He could be like St George and slay the dragon, whichever shape it took in reality. “You don't have to become that.”

“Father wants me to,” Merlin said, his shoulders droopy. “He never fails to point out the success of the Orsini and Malatesta, the Gonzagas.”

“You don't have to be like them.” Arthur couldn't see Merlin as a veteran of such battlefields as those those men fought on. He needed protection from himself. He needed a bodyguard against his own outward clumsiness. How could he be successful wielding weapons of death? “You can become something else.”

“The same is true of you.” Merlin stopped their ambling short and looked him in the eyes, his gaze penetrating and shrewd. 

Arthur wished it was so easy. “I took vows as a boy, Merlin.”

“But you don't sound happy.” Merlin took his hand. “You should be happy.”

Merlin's words were a stab to the heart. It was hard not reacting to them as he wanted to, not to let his feelings on the matter show. There was a lifetime of longing to be hid. A well of untapped wishes and desires that made him mourn the man he could have been. He swallowed hard and looked away. “It's a question of duty.”

“Duty. You make it sound so harsh, the priestly calling.” Merlin's brows drew together. “That must mean you don't love God.” 

“Not as much as I love my family.” Arthur landed his hand on Merlin's shoulder in a heavy pat fit to make his brother cough. “But no more talk of this.” Merlin was probing too deeply today. He was finding Arthur's weaknesses one by one. He had done some growing up while Arthur wasn't looking, while he was at the university of Pisa, studying law. He shouldn't have let that pass him by; he should have been more watchful. He shouldn't have missed this development at all. “The crowd is making such a racket something must be happening.”

They both turned towards the Vatican, eyes on its chimneys, to see whether the smoke erupting from them would be black like coals, or white, like the wings of a dove.

The mob pressed and pushed to get a good view, for a white cloud of smoke would announce the election of a new pope and they all clearly wanted to know who would rule them from then on. 

Would they have a corrupt pope, or a reformer? Would a Sforza wear the papal tiara, with his allies in Milan, or would an ally of the French don it, bringing with him such foreign interference the likes of which had not been seen since the Avignon Captivity? Above all would they starve?

Arthur could read all the questions and more on the faces of the Roman populace. He had some of his own, for based on the outcome of this day his destiny would unfold.

As the first plumes of smoke rose from the Vatican chimneys, they all thrust themselves forward to see what colour it was.


	2. Chapter 2

The garden was in full bloom. The May roses may have wilted, but the begonias were rampaging across the flower beds while the catmint clustered around the walls and at the bases of lemon and orange trees. In their shadows bees buzzed and lizards sunned themselves. Past the brick walls that circled the gardens, all of them covered in deeply green creepers, the dome of St Paul peeked, together with the bell towers of several other churches, some as ancient as Christianity itself; others as new as babes in arms. 

Merlin was training with master Baldassarre, his jerkin off, the laces of his shirt undone at the front, patches of sweat staining it underarm and at the small of his back. 

With his bastard sword Baldassarre came around, but Merlin, though on unsteady feet, managed to block it with his. Shuffling in with quick cuts, Baldassere made to slice at Merlin's stomach. Merlin danced away just in time, making Arthur cringe as he watched. 

If he wanted to avoid a sparring accident, his brother needed to be faster, more assured. 

Baldassarre, however, didn't cut him any slack. He brought round the handle of his sword and lunged. Fortunately, Merlin saw it coming and ducked. Having survived this part of the bout, Merlin went on to attack, but Baldassare dodged, swiping Merlin's sword easily away. 

There was a way to recoup now. If Merlin vaulted to the side and came at Baldassare again, he would find his open flank. 

Arthur wanted to shout it to him, to communicate it to him, but there was no way he could do so without invalidating the session. He could only imagine how he would move were he Baldassare's current opponent, if he were the one with a blade in his hand instead of Merlin.

If he closed his eyes Arthur could see it all in his mind's eye. He could feel the roughness of the hilt in his palm; hear the metal sing as it sliced the air. He could sense his blood coursing faster, his ears thumping. For a moment he was the knight he wanted to be, a man in armour, defending the weak, protecting Merlin. But alas he opened his eyes and saw the sun play in the garden, took in the open book before him, and the grasses touching the hem of his bishop's cassock. 

The sound of steel on steel brought Arthur's attention back to the action. After he'd ducked Merlin's sword Baldassarre slashed. Tripping over his own feet, Merlin nonetheless disengaged. With renewed intent Baldassarre chopped down across Merlin's body. Merlin parried, lunged forward and thrust the point of his sword at Baldassarre's side. 

Now that wasn't so bad. The move showed that Merlin had learned something trough the years. He maybe lacked the natural quickness of the man at arms, was more prone to the study of herbs and herb lore than he was to hone his fighting techniques, but he had made progress, had picked up the rudiments of his trade. Arthur felt such warmth for him over that he couldn't stanch his pride.

When Baldassare renewed his attack, Merlin twisted but could not bring his sword around swiftly enough to counter the move. Baldassarre swiped Merlin's own weapon away. 

Barely panting, Baldassare said, “This needs more work, my lord. Much more work.”

Merlin ducked his head. “Well, I--”

In a swish of heavy silks, their mother put down her sewing, rose and said, “Sir, the heat proved to much for my son. But the spectacle you provided was riveting.”

“Such it might be, my lady.” Baldassarre bowed. “But I'm trying to prepare Merlin for battle. No warrior will have pity on him if he slackens.”

“But surely he isn't fighting yet.” Ygraine stood taller. “No such harshness is needed.”

Arthur felt the argument would have continued had Father not appeared. He had no retinue and no bodyguard. But that wasn't the reason why he appeared so different. Instead of cardinal reds, he was wearing a white cassock kept in place by a fringed white fascia with a dragon embroidered on it, and a white zucchetto. Around his neck hung a pectoral cross on a gold chain. 

“Father,” Merlin said, turning around. “You've won, haven't you?”

“Yes, indeed, I have, my son,” Uther said, without a smile but with a glint in his eyes that spoke of satisfaction. “From now on we are not Uther Pendragon, but the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church.”

“Does this mean we're no longer your children?” Arthur asked, since he was suspecting his father was about to say as much, that they were cast off, repudiated.

Eyes wide with outrage, Ygraine turned around. “Arthur!”

“Let him ask, let him ask,” Uther said, putting up calming hands. “I meant no such thing. You are my children and anyone may know it.”

“So things aren't going to change?” Dismissing Baldassarre, who knew better that to remain during a family gathering, Merlin moved over to their father. His face was all a-crease, showing that he too, like Arthur, was confused as to the future.

“We'll have less time to pay calls and visit this palace of yours.” Father ducked his head away from Mother. “But by and large our interactions with our family will remain the same.” He paused. “There will yet be some necessary alterations.”

Ha, Arthur had known. Even once he'd had what he wanted, Father couldn't resist. He still had to aim higher and higher. “What are these alterations?”

They moved over to the garden table Arthur and Ygraine had occupied. Father poured himself some lemonade, which he drank in slow sips. Seeing as his father was indulging in the the fresh drink, Merlin, who was damp with sweat up to the root of his hair, took some too. Arthur was in no mood to partake.

“Now more than ever we need to look to new allegiances,” Father said. “When we were cardinal, we could fend for ourselves, but not anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Ygraine tilted his head. 

“This Italy of ours is rife with strife and tension.” Father used his hands to explain. "The country is fragmented and each state, duchy, and commonality vies for more power.”

“That's always been so.” Arthur had pored over the map of Italy plenty of times. He had studied it in university, pondered it during his time off. He'd always wished the political reality were different. That they were as unified as France was. But it was not to be, and wishing wouldn't move borders, or crown kings. “How does it affect us now?”

Uther muttered low under his breath. “If we want to keep our position in the holy see, we had better forge new and stronger alliances.”

“Who with?” Merlin asked, tensing as he listened closely. 

“The Spaniards for one.” As though in preparation for a long speech, Father sank more fully into the chair, pushing a leg out. “We are English, foreigners here, and we need a strong alliance with Spain to achieve stability. Remember, Spain indirectly rules Naples. And we border with that Kingdom.”

“How do you mean to forge this alliance with Spain?” Arthur asked, because he had no idea what his father meant to do.

“Morgana is to leave her convent school.” Father flattened a hand on the table and studied his knuckles, the shape of his finger, the great ring that sat on his index that glinted in the early afternoon sunlight. “She's to marry King Ferdinand's cousin.”

“But she's only fourteen.” Mother's mouth thinned. “That's-- that's—”

“Immaterial.” Father looked away. “We are Pope. We can include a clause in the contract stipulating the marriage remain unconsummated until she's of age.”

“But still.” Mother's expression stayed wan. “I assume she'd have to travel to Spain.”

Father coughed and settled and resettled in his chair. “Only when we deem her fit to make the voyage. In exchange she's to become Duchess of Gandia in an allegiance that will cement our bonds with the house of Aragon.”

“What about me, Father?” Merlin asked, as pale as a sheet.

Arthur almost didn't want to hear what his father was going to say. He was sure not to like it anyway and, as long as he remained ignorant of it, he could breathe more easily, not worry for Merlin so. But he knew the news was coming whether he wanted it to or not.

“You're going to marry as well, of course,” Father said, laying a hand on Merlin's shoulder. “We haven't decided who yet, but it'll be a girl of noble family, whether legitimate or illegitimate doesn't matter as long as her dowry is fat.”

“But father.” Merlin went pale, licking his lips more than once. “I'm not ready for marriage yet.”

“Nobody is!” Uther said. “Don't worry, in time you'll find yourself suited to it--”

“But--”

“If you are not.” Uther's gaze got steely, “you can always take a mistress.”

Merlin spluttered, drank, spat out some of his beverage, then imbibed some more. “I don't want to do that.”

“Nonsense.” Father placed a hand on their mother's palm, patting it repeatedly before twining their fingers. “Everybody does it.”

Arthur didn't want Merlin to marry. He didn't even want him to hear the comment their father had made. It was true. Wherever Arthur looked he saw unfaithful couples. This was Rome, after all. One might think that, as a bishop, he would be spared such sights, but chaste men of the cloth, no matter the vows taken were as rare as upright laymen. But mentioning such a truth was also crass. Not something he wanted Merlin to even consider. Merlin was so unlike their father, he shouldn't even entertain a train of thought similar to his. To change the subject, but also because he wanted to know, Arthur asked, “And what's to become of me?”

Father clapped his hands together. “You're to be made a cardinal.”

Arthur frowned deeply. He was a bishop. Had been one since he was sixteen. Though he had no love for canon law, he knew the rules well. “I'm illegitimate. I can't be made cardinal.”

“It is true we never married your mother--” Uther smiled at Ygraine, touched her neck and hand, which she kissed. “Seeing as we were already a cardinal and had taken vows. But there's a way out.”

“Not as I see it.” Everyone knew Arthur was the child of Uther and Ygraine. It was a secret his father had decided not to keep. Pope Innocent had had children, too, after all, though that had been before he entered the clergy. And if Innocent had been able to, had actually married his offspring off to Medicis, then their father was the type to parade his own brood. But that meant Arthur could never rise further in the church. “Illegitimate sons can't become cardinals.”

“I have seen to that,” Father said. “We'll emit a bull. We'll say you're Ygraine's husband's son. No one will be able to oppose that.”

Arthur's heart shrank before freezing. For such a hot day, it was an odd occurrence. “You'd renounce me?”

“Nonsense.” Father stood, stroking down his robes to shake the grass that had stuck at the hem. “It's only for the purposes of getting the investiture.” He kissed Ygraine on the cheek, and slapped Merlin on the back. “We'll find time to discuss this soon. Now we must get back to our Vatican duties.”

When Father left, Mother went back to her sewing, while Merlin cleaned his sword before leaving for the armoury. 

With the uproar following the news of their Father's election, they received many calls during the day. They were on the part of well-wishers, requester of alms, and seekers of patronage. They had veritable crowds at their doorstep, and each visit lasted hours. Their mother would no more turn out a nobleman than she would a poor citizen of Rome. But that took a toll on them all, for those who would curry favour were many. Once they were left alone, they were so hoarse and tired from all the talking they'd done, they barely spoke to each other. 

It was nearly midnight, clamour still raging through the streets of Rome, when Merlin entered his chamber. Though he'd lost his doublet, he hadn't changed, still wearing the same clothes he'd donned at dinner. 

Arthur, for his part, had rid himself of his cassock, for he never felt comfortable in it, replacing it with a white tunic and the well-worn breeches he slept in. Thus he was severely under-dressed and at a disadvantage when Merlin joined him. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “What brings you here?”

Merlin wandered around Arthur's room, sitting in his chair, going to the window and peeking at the streets, then perching at the edge of a table with a book in his hands. He leafed through it from cover to cover before sighing loudly. “Nothing.”

“You look like a soul in purgatory.”

Bursting out laughing, Merlin shook his head. 

“It is something.” Arthur didn't even need to study Merlin's face to see that.

“It's--” Merlin ambled over. “What father said.”

“It didn't leave me well pleased either,” Arthur said.

Merlin joined him in bed, lying thigh to thigh with him on top of the covers, his head on Arthur's pillow. “I know. But--”

Pinching Merlin's flank, Arthur said, “What?”

“About getting married,” Merlin said, looking at the ceiling and swallowing.

Arthur turned so he could watch Merlin. They lay so close it was almost hard focusing on him, reading his face. But that didn't matter. He had it stored so clearly in his memory, he didn't need the help of actual sight to remember its nuances. “What about it?”

“It's not that I don't want to marry indefinitely,” Merlin said, a hand on his belly, splayed flat. “But I've my doubts about a lot of things.”

Arthur flipped on his side. “You need to give me more for me to give advice.”

“You're not shriving me.” Merlin chuckled to himself, a low tinkling burr of a laugh. 

“I well could.” Arthur didn't want to know Merlin's deepest secrets. He thought of them as something belonging to his brother and his brother only, the most intimate part of him. But if Merlin needed him in an ecclesiastical function, Arthur would take the mantle on. “I'm not bishop for nothing.”

“Shut up.” Merlin kicked him in the shin. “You don't want to be a bishop.”

Knowing that Merlin wouldn't unburden himself unless he felt ready to, Arthur waited in silence. Moment followed moment and the sounds of the city outside dwindled to almost nothing. It was quiet in their household in a way it almost never was.

At last Merlin said. “What if the marriage is no success?” He blinked at the ceiling. “What if I don't love my wife? What if my wife doesn't love me?”

That was the way of arranged marriages. But Arthur didn't wish to impart that dire truth to Merlin. He wanted him to live in hope. Though parting with him would be hard, he'd have to let that happen. But not while Merlin had doubts. “Impossible.”

“You know how life is,” Merlin said, turning his head towards Arthur. “We won't know each other. We won't have much of a say.”

That was again true. But Arthur didn't want Merlin to look at his future with apprehension. “You know what, if it doesn't work out I'll dissolve the marriage myself. One word from you, and I'll see it done.”

Merlin smiled from ear to ear his teeth, and leaned closer, looking him in the eyes.

Arthur stopped breathing or came close to.

Then Merlin moved up and put his lips to his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur's cardinal investiture took place on a Saturday, early in the morning, when the air still smelt like dew and freshly budding flowers, when sunlight hadn't yet chased away the shadows of the naves. In the preceding days, he'd already been promoted to the Sacred College and this ceremony was only a formality, but it was one that had to be seen to, one that needed to be witnessed by a whole congregation. It was part of the ritual. 

He stood in his robes, deacons at his side, accoutred in golden vestments, his heart beating a double beat, his fingers drumming at his side. This behaviour wasn't occasioned by his being unused to church liturgy, because by now he was. His lapse was due to the knowledge that what was about to happen now was irreversible, a further step towards a future that wasn't of his own creation. This made him jittery, caused him to be uneasy in his own body, fretful, toying with the chain of his crucifix where it cut into his neck, shifting his weight again and again, just like a novice about to take vows.

Hooded monks gowns sat in the wings, a dark complement to the splendour of the pope, his long cappa magna borne by young acolytes clad in scarlet. Other attendants, wrapped in the same vibrant hue with capes of ermine, bore the processional cross of gold and silver as they marched behind the Holy Father. 

Within, St Paul's was radiant with the light of thousands of candles and the colour of countless blooming flowers. Spectators filled the distant aisles, while in the large chancel ranged the clergy, the bishops and the archbishops — the latter on the right, the former on the left, their red and purple robes shimmering in the light of the thousand tapers that had been lit for the occasion, listening to the Gregorian chants of choirs hidden from view. 

As he went down the steps that separated the altar from the nave, the Pope moved slowly, sunlight silvering his hair, a proud set to his jaw, the hint of a satisfied smile on his lips. 

Following the ritual, he presented the newly invested cardinals with their rings, zucchetti, birettes and four tasselled hats, assigning them titular churches in the Diocese of Rome.

When Arthur's turn came, the smile on Father's face fleetingly deepened before composing itself. Arthur knew what it meant, the feelings it didn't conceal. The other cardinals were there for show. Everybody was aware. It was Arthur's elevation this had all been done for. It was Arthur's who'd received the best seat, the most magnificent benefices, the richest revenues.

Once they were given their attributes, the new cardinals professed their faith by reciting the Creed, the Latin sounding solemn and ancient as they swore fidelity and obedience to the pope and his successors, kissing the ring and kneeling at the Holy Father's feet. 

To Arthur the vow was nothing new. He may not have spoken it before, not to his own sire, but his fealty had always, without the shadow of a doubt, gone to his father. If anything his promise was more sincere, his words more honest. Arthur had always been tied by the familial ties that made of him a Pendragon. This was nothing more than the ostentation of a truth he couldn't have changed about himself.

When Arthur was back into his chamber, getting disrobed by a page boy, Merlin came in. 

“Congratulations,” Merlin said, smiling widely when he saw him. “I watched it all from the back pews.”

“You should have sat in the first row,” Arthur told him, divesting himself of his cassock, which he gave to his page. He stood in his shift. It was clean and smelt of the smell of churches, incense and myrrh on it, the oils used for blessings. 

“I couldn't.” Merlin watched him as Arthur took off his undergarment. “Prelates had the best seats.”

“Oh, to hell with prelates, Merlin.” Arthur stood naked before Merlin, his legs apart, his head back, the muscles in his arms corded. He was as upright as when he'd waited for investiture. Except now there were no external signs of his office. He was as bare as on the day he'd been born. “You should have had the best place.”

“It didn't matter where I stood,” Merlin said. “I was so full of pride I couldn't have been happier. Near or far.”

“Well, if you were content with it.” Arthur tried not to let show how his brother's words filled him with a contentment he had no place feeling on a day that marked his ever deepening relationship to the church, a tie he wanted to cut off rather than retain. Ignoring Merlin's sentiments was easier that facing them head on. Parsing them put a stitch in his breath, a wound in his heart that not even Christ could heal. No, Merlin was too full of love and good will for him to be able to take it all in, take it all inside and survive. He'd better get on with his plans for the day and act as though he hadn't heard the words. Dismissing his page, he stepped into the wooden tub he'd had had prepared. “It was a long morning.”

“The church honoured you.” Merlin sat on the table behind the tub, picked up an apple from the bowl, and ate it. “I'm glad it happened. I'm glad I saw it happen.”

Arthur made himself deaf to the words, built armour around him and, let them fall off him. This way they couldn't flatter or entice his heart. They couldn't affect him, or carve notches into his body. This way they would fall off him like morning rain, leaving him bathed clean, but untouched at the core. 

He went under, ducking under the water, which dampened his hair, then resurfaced, leaning against the tub's structure. Though he should have gone on and cleaned himself, he didn't run the cloth over his skin. He didn't rinse away the sweat of the day. He didn't dust off. He felt powerless to do it. He wasn't too tired. He wasn't even listless. If anything he was too emotional. He didn't want to shake and tremble in Merlin's sight. He didn't want to give himself away to that extent. God, but Merlin had awful timing, had always had. 

Always underfoot, he'd always been there when Arthur least expected it. When they were children and a storm hit, Merlin had poked his head into his room, waited for an invitation, then barrelled in, asking for stories so that he could take his mind off the frightful weather. When Arthur had started studying with his tutor, having a hard time getting the Greek into his head, Merlin had climbed onto the chair next to his, and stolen his parchments, even if he was too young for the lesson plan. And when Arthur had kissed his first girl, months before taking vows, Merlin had cleared past the sunny street corner he'd hidden behind and asked how it had been, if Arthur was happy with it, and when would Merlin's own turn come. 

Arthur had told him he would only be allowed when he was old, decrepit really, and Merlin had laughed, saying he was teasing.

So it had been then, Merlin a part of his life even at the most awkward of times, and so it was now.

Besides that Arthur couldn't properly face Merlin today, wasn't prepared to. His guard wasn't up. He had been keyed up all day and now all he wanted to do was relax in the warmth. He knew that the future wouldn't be easy. Not with everything that having a pope for a father involved. He had a right to some quiet, to some moments of abandon. “It was just another ceremony.” Arthur leant his head against the rim of the tub. “An awful lot of people won't like it. They'll say it was a show of nepotism.”

“Because you're His Holiness' son,” Merlin said, as he hopped down from his perch. He moved behind the tub and knelt there. “But we both know you're more learned and generous than any of our opposers. Your charity, for one, is true.”

“But not my piety, Merlin.” Arthur caught Merlin's expression from upside down. “That anyone may know.”

Merlin picked up the cloth Arthur had left untouched. He ran it across Arthur's shoulders, over his pectorals, moving it slowly, making its fibres linger on Arthur's skin, which knit, and hardened. “You may have no vocation,” Merlin said. “But that doesn't mean you aren't a far better man than many a cardinal.”

“Because they're all corrupt.” Arthur swallowed as Merlin moved the cloth down his torso in a soothing motion that yet failed to calm Arthur, rather alerting his senses to chaos, to upheaval. His blood coursed faster, his heart contracted, and his skin pimpled. His muscles, which had relaxed because of the warmth of the water he lay in, coiled again. “But if you compared me to a god-fearing monk, to a dutiful priest, to a penitent, then I'd be nothing but a fraud.”

Leaning forward, Merlin roamed the cloth over one arm, down to the elbow, then he dragged it back up again, trailing it along his shoulder, then down his other arm. “With a father like ours, what choice did you have?” When Arthur made to answer, Merlin continued. “Stop flagellating, and maybe use your position for good. Help those monks, those priests, those penitents get their dues.”

Arthur chuckled. “When did you become so wise, Merlin?”

Merlin shifted towards the side of the tub, so he could clean Arthur's forearms and hands. He was gentle with the cloth, slow and methodical about scrubbing Arthur's skin. “I think I should be wise, given that our Father is marrying me off. I should be a proper family man now.”

Of course, Merlin wouldn't have been able to change their Father's mind on the subject of his nuptials. Arthur hadn't expected him to. He'd broached the topic with their father too, telling him there was still time to think up alliances for Merlin, that a year or two may pass without any detriment to them, but Father's opinion had been inalterable. There was no time at their heels, their enemies barked at their heels like hounds from hell. “I'm sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin shrugged. He walked to the other side of the tub, got Arthur's right arm and hand clean, then took the large towel lying discarded on the chair and held it up for Arthur. 

Skin warmed pink, Arthur stepped out the tub and into Merlin's arms. Merlin wrapped the towel around him and, holding him close, rubbed him dry. Closing his eyes, Arthur let his body veer into Merlin's, his heart lashing his blood into a fury of coursing fast, its beat at his neck and fingertips. He let the vital feeling rush through him, chafing his skin to ruddiness, prompting his body into awareness of Merlin's touch, of the air's touch, of every particle in the room. He allowed his body to sink into a tempest of the senses that wouldn't quieten however Arthur tried to tame it.

When he was dry, he stepped away from Merlin, dropping the towel. Naked, he breathed in and out, his chest rising and falling with each intake of air. He stood frozen in place for the longest time, unable to move a muscle, incapable of saying one single word, only staring his fill, Merlin gazing at him with affection and trust in his eyes. When this strange vicinity became too much for him, when it confused his thoughts and got his innards to a pulp, he turned round and pulled his linen undergarments back on, then put on breeches, a tunic, and a doublet, layman apparel, simple rather than ornate. 

“I'm choosing my bride,” Merlin said, while Arthur fit his feet into a pair of boots. 

“You're what?” Arthur dropped his second boot.

“The paintings have arrived.” Merlin lifted a shoulder. “The likenesses of the ladies I'm supposed to choose from.”

“So soon?” Arthur had thought they would all have more time. That the great machine of politics wouldn't have moved so fast. 

Merlin dried his hand on a fresh towel he found on a chair. “Will you help me choose?”

Arthur had rather not. Preferably, he wanted to be left out of it, not to have anything to do with it at all. This was their father's plan, his idea, his machination. Moreover, this wasn't going to affect his life, wouldn't change it one jot but for taking Merlin away from him, so Merlin should decide on his own. But Merlin had asked, and Arthur could refuse him nothing. “All right. I will.”

Using the passages connecting the Pendragon's private residence to the Vatican, they entered their father's studio. One side of it was scaffolded, for Bernardino di Betto, their father's hired artist, was painting frescoes on the walls. One depicted the new Pope in prayer, kneeling by an altar over which angels hovered with their golden wings fanning wide. But the other side still housed the Pope's desk and his document archive, his chest and the busts of emperors he collected. The portraits that the ambassadors had sent were kept alongside them, on gilded trestles that denoted their importance.

Merlin placed two chairs in front of the portrait line-up and leant against the desk, over which an illuminated Bible stood open.

“There are six of them,” Arthur said.

“Father made the cull.” As he looked at the portraits, Merlin crossed his arms. “He excluded those alliances that would bring us nothing.”

“So you had a lot of proposals.” Arthur pinched Merlin's side. “Father had to have his say to cut them down to reasonable nubmbers.”

“Oh, fie, Arthur, fie.” Merlin wriggled away from him. “It's not like that.”

“I bet there's many a princess mooning over your own portrait.” Over the past months Merlin had sat for one. Arthur had found himself duty bound to tease him for it. Their father had chosen the pose, Merlin wearing armour and wielding a sword, a large double-handed one fit for a German mercenary. Since the artist had claimed he'd be able to paint the background – a battlefield – from memory, Merlin had sat indoors inside a suit of armour, his weapon at the ready as though he was about to joust, sweating like a pig. Arthur had had a field day. Merlin had blushed and blushed, and Arthur had wanted nothing more than to be able to rag Merlin about it. If life could be like that forever, Arthur would call himself content. “Sighing into their handkerchiefs.”

“You know it won't be like that,” Merlin said, his flush deepening. “More likely they're pleading on their knees for their fathers to spare them such a marriage. You know people don't like us.”

Arthur sidled closer to Merlin. “That may be true of father.” There was many a noble family who hadn't accepted the result of the conclave, who were Uther Pendragon's steadfast rivals in the game of politics. Those families would willingly supplant their father by fair means or foul. “But nobody hates you, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head. “They hate all of us.”

That was probably closer to the mark than Arthur liked to think. They were Pendragons, marked by their name as much as by their birth. Their enemies would see no difference between the head of the family and its scions. They were all in the bulls eye. But if Merlin married while entertaining that idea, then the union would be doomed to fail. “You're different, Merlin, quite special in your own way. Your wife will adore you. And if she doesn't, you know what you have to do.”

“Help me choose her then,” Merlin said, showing him the portraits.

While Arthur wasn't keen to, had rather Merlin stayed unmarried till he chose to wed himself, he had no other choice but to comply. He looked at the paintings. The first one represented a fine lady with a supercilious expression not even the flattering of the painter had been able to erase. “Who's that?” 

“An Orsini lady.” Looking at her likeness, Merlin tilted his head to the side. “Father says an alliance with her might win us over her family. But her family is one of our greatest opposers. So he fears she'll stab me in my bed.”

“That's definitely a no then.” Arthur didn't want to run any risk. “Who's that?”

“An English duchess,” Merlin said. “Her name's Mithian. She's beautiful, isn't she?”

Arthur had a sinking feeling Merlin would choose her. After all, it wouldn't be a bad choice at all. She had noble features, a proud mien, sweet eyes, and smooth skin. Poets would sing of her beauty and charms just as surely as they'd be enchanted by those characteristics. Who was he to talk her down? “Yes, she is. Find yourself itching to choose her?”

“Father isn't enthusiastic about her.” Merlin exhaled. “She's English. We're in Italy. Politically she would be of little help. Can't provide armies. Her family connections are insular and of little use.”

Arthur felt almost lighter at the notion. He didn't know why. He ought to have lamented the fact Merlin couldn't have the best bride in the bunch. But so it was with him and that was it.

“Those other two--” Even a passing glance would have told Arthur they were no good for Merlin. They were in their forties and thus too old for him. It would have been one thing if Merlin had known one of them and felt a spark for her, but without the flame of love, relationships with such age gaps were bound for failure. Not that it stopped any arranged marriage, but if Merlin had leeway to choose, then this was not the best option. “Are not in your age range at all.”

“Yes and Father impressed upon me the need for an heir,” Merlin said, shoulders going down. “He wants me to sire an entire dynasty so that there will be Pendragons in positions of power for centuries.”

That sounded indeed like their father, if you asked Arthur. “What about the blonde one?”

“Elena?” Merlin angled her portrait. “She's a good choice. She's a young widower, from a noble family near Pisa. She loves to hunt and is a fine horsewoman. She's not quite as wealthy as the lady my father favours.”

“Who is?”

“Freya,” Merlin said, looking at her portrait at though he could get to the soul of the person portrayed. Perhaps there was such power in his divining, who knew. “She's my age and the daughter of the Sforza Count.”

“Sforza.” The name alone was ominous. “I must assume they're related to the Milan Sforzas.”

“Indeed,” Merlin said, releasing a long breath. “Which is Ludovico's side of the family.”

“And we all know--” Like almost everyone else privy to diplomatic dispatches, Arthur had heard the news leaking out of Milan. “--that he keeps his nephew, the true heir to the duchy, a virtual prisoner in his own home.”

“I wouldn't be marrying into that branch.” Merlin touched his fingers to the portrait. “But into the Pesaro one.”

“And that'd be good for us,” Arthur said, imagining what kind of reasoning had prompted their father when it came to a range of bridal choices. “If we're close to the Pesaro family, then we're close to Milan. And if we're close to Milan--” It was diabolic really. “Then the French won't touch us, should they vie for Naples to the south of us, because they're tight with the Milanese leaders.”

“Yes, you're not wrong.” Holding his chin, Merlin wagged his head. “She looks nice.”

Arthur looked down, a pang rising together with the acknowledgement of that fact. He'd no reason to begrudge the young lady her due. All families were rival to his, but that didn't mean the countess was guilty of any sin. “She's veritably beautiful.”

“That too,” Merlin said, pinking up. “But I meant to say she looked kind.”

“Each kindness you require, she satisfies.” In replying, Arthur used a levity he didn't feel.

“You have Dante backwards,” Merlin said, gently laughing. “That's not the right quote.”

“No.” Arthur licked his lips. “That's not even remotely right, is it?”

Merlin's laughter slowly died. It echoed emptily in the chambers, ricocheting off stuccoed walls and gilded corridors. When he subdued it, the room fell eerily silent, more so than when the Pope was locked in prayer. “So what do I do?” Merlin gave him a fleeting glance.

“I think,” Arthur said, though he didn't mean to speak so hoarsely, though he didn't want to voice all of his misgivings, of which there were many. “You already know the answer.”

“The Sforza Countess.”

“The Sforza Countess.” Arthur repeated the words, but they were barely a whisper.


	4. Chapter 4

Diplomacy took its course slowly. At first letters went to and fro, missives reaching the Vatican every other day, then at more frequent intervals. Then messages arrived by the dozen, several a day, at disparate hours. When the parties seemed to reach an epistolary agreement, ambassadors started to travel in person to and from Pesaro. Once the contract was signed, a by proxy event, the dowry arrived. 

The escort came first, armed horsemen wearing the Sforza colours and brandishing their pennants trooping into the city. Then a Sforza emissary reached the palace, coming with his own bodyguard. In his wake ten carts laden with chests and drawn by white horses marched into the courtyard of the Apostolic Palace. Once the Vatican guards had checked them, the carts were taken into the palace's inner yard and brought into the audience chamber and in the presence of the Pope.

Attendants opened the chests lined up in front of the throne, the lids coming up one by one with creaks and yawns.

Arthur had never seen as much gold in his life. It shone in heaps and mounds. It came in stacks and piles. It glittered so much it overshadowed the light of the candles.

Father leant forward in his see, his foot on the step, and eyes shining, said, “Now we're talking. That's a proper dowry.”

The Sforza emissary said, “Three hundred thousand ducats, Your Holiness.”

“That's the agreed sum.” Father nodded to himself. “We'll have it counted.”

“I assure Your Holiness that all the money is there.” The emissary's mouth thinned, but he bowed all the same. “We did the computing in Pesaro. There can be no mistake. It's a tally.”

“Still.” Father fluttered his hand about. “We will have to be sure before we allow our son to depart.”

Vatican accountants counted the money. Three times. Not a ducat was missing so Father agreed to schedule Merlin's departure from Rome. It was going to be a great event, one to be marked by fêtes and celebrations. The alliance was, after all, going to make the Holy See even more powerful, and the people would partake in the joy that should cause any subject of the Papal State, for more power meant more security, more stability, fewer threats of invasion. At least for the few days leading up to Merlin's leaving the people of the Eternal City would stop secretly complaining about the governance of Rome. There would be parades, plays, and games, all of them free for the populace. The Pope knew how to ingratiate the people, how to make them rejoice in his election, the change of regime. By the time the ceremonies were over, the mobs of Rome would love the Pendragons.

As a result of this expectation, Father strutted about the Vatican so sure of himself, diplomats started taking note. Arthur acted as though none of this was happening, mostly because he didn't know how to face the truth of the situation. As to Merlin, he took it in stride, though he didn't talk much and spent more and more time alone. Arthur wasn't sure whether that was because he was being kept so busy by all his wedding related engagements that he was wrung out the rest of the time or because he had just grown more thoughtful. Either way his new timetable was so hectic Arthur hardly saw him. Merlin had in fact many tasks to see to. He had to buy new horses, select a new retinue to follow him north, and to get outfitted for his departure. While he lingered in Rome, suits of armour got made, and new clothes were ordered, doublets and jerkins, breeches and gloves. All of them Merlin had to select personally.

While he was being fitted for new apparel, Merlin talked to Arthur. “I start for Pesaro in a week.”

Arthur hadn't counted the days. If he'd cared to, he might have. He might have asked around and learnt the date of Merlin's departure, but that wasn't something he was keen to get acquainted with. Because once Merlin was gone, he would be gone, and there would be no changing that. Not having the day down helped him ignore the situation. Ignoring was the best tactic Arthur had at his disposal; either that or facing the fact his life was going to change. He was going to lose a family member. With all the enemies they had that was an event to mourn. “It's rather soon.”

“Father's now content with the alliance,” Merlin said, without referring to the dowry, which must be what he knew had moved their father. “He says there's no reason why this marriage shouldn't take place as soon as possible.”

“No, no,” Arthur said, watching as Merlin put his leg out for the tailor to measure it. “He's probably right.”

“If I'm to be honest.” Merlin let the tailor measure his in-seam. “I'm a little nervous about the whole thing.”

Arthur was too. He wanted to believe it was because he was thinking of the downsides of the agreement, the possible complications, which were all political, but he wasn't sure he was being truthful with himself. “I think there's no man about to be married who doesn't feel jittery before it happens.”

While the tailor took notes of his measurements, acting as though he hadn't heard a word of the exchange, Merlin laughed, embarrassment threaded through it. “I'm sure that's true. Nonetheless I wanted to ask you whether you'd like to accompany me to Pesaro.”

It was a double edged sword. On the one hand, Arthur wanted to go. If he travelled with Merlin their parting would be postponed to a later date. On the other sometimes it was easier to be swift when it came to inflict pain upon oneself. You plucked an arrow embedded in your skin quickly, and not in stages. You surprised yourself so as not to feel the pain. How could this be much different? He was still arguing internally, weighing the pros and cons, when he spoke, his answer prompted by instinct more than thought. “I'll come if you want me.”

“I asked you,” Merlin said, extending his arm so the tailor could study it. “Of course I do.”

Arthur didn't reply. He knew that what he'd said had been empty of meaning. Merlin had asked. And Merlin made a point to always speak his mind, say what he meant. Besides Arthur would never refuse him. 

When the tailor was done and gone, and Merlin had hopped off the stool he'd stood on, he closed the door and turned to Arthur. “There's another request I have to make.”

“If I can help,” Arthur said. “Then I will.”

Merlin moved his head up and down. He walked round the stool, came to a halt, then paced round it again. He sat on it, one leg out, the other drawn back. Then he stuck his other leg out, and pulled back the bent one. “It's about the wedding. I want it to be a special occasion.”

“Considering all the organisation that's been put into it,” Arthur said. “You may rest assured it's going to be memorable.”

Merlin straightened on his perch, head up, gazing at Arthur with a directness that was breathtaking. “I wasn't thinking of the ceremonial aspect.” He licked his lips. “I had the personal one in mind.”

Arthur wasn't sure he understood Merlin anymore. “So?”

“So I want you to stay and not turn back as soon as we've reached Pesaro.” Merlin said the words quickly and all in one breath. “I need you to be there for the actual ceremony.”

A motion of the heart unsettled Arthur right down to the bones. “I, Merlin, I--”

“Please, say that you will.” When Merlin spoke this time it was with his heart on his sleeve. His eyes were moist and frown lines were on his brow. It looked as though he was about to break, with a sudden fragility stamped on his features. “It would truly please me.”

“I will be there.”

Merlin let out a breath and a smiled at him. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you.” His shoulders came down immediately after. “There's something else.”

“Come on, Merlin, spit it out.” Arthur laughed it off though he was on tenterhooks himself.

“I don't want a Pesaro priest to marry me,” Merlin said, eyes trained on Arthur. “I don't know him and wouldn't trust him. I want you to perform the office.”

“You want what?” 

“I want you to be the one who marries me.”

Arthur had got it right the first time. But he needed time to think of an answer. He didn't want to do it. He was too involved to be able to do his duty the way he should. In addition to that there was the fact he had no vocation, no firm belief in the church tenets he daily advocated. Merlin deserved to have the very best priest marry him. Yet if Merlin asked, that was because it was what he wanted. Arthur knew what being a Pendragon meant. It was a constant show of strength, a constant production, one fit to rival the stage. Merlin's marriage would be a show like none that had gone before. It would be daunting and Merlin would have no friends taking part in it. No one invested in his welfare would witness it. He needed a family member there; he needed Arthur. “I will. I will marry you myself.”

Merlin bounded over and embraced him, his nose touching the side of Arthur's face. “Thank you, Arthur, thank you.”

Arthur didn't enfold him in his arms, he stood stock still, his heart in his throat, his gaze averted. “That was nothing, Merlin.”

They left Rome a week afterwards. The parade started with guards, was followed by trumpeters, and ended with a cortège of damsels strewing petals on the path. Arthur and Merlin were in the middle of it, flanked by armed soldiers on either side. Behind them the young women followed, wicker baskets hanging from their wrists.

Because of the crowds, Merlin's horse kept prancing. He got it under control, cutting a fine figure on horseback. He was more of a natural with animals than he was at posing as a knight. It was likely Merlin was aware of that too, for that day he'd made a stand and refused to wear armour. It suffocated him, he'd said. He couldn't breathe in it, he'd insisted. They didn't want him to have trouble on the way, did they? They wanted him at his best. Father had reluctantly agreed. 

So Merlin was accoutred following the most current of fashions. His linen shirt was of the purest white and worn next to the skin. It had a low neckline; wide sleeves pulled through the slashings of a green velvet doublet that had braid applied to it at hems and wrists. It was golden, reflecting the trim around the collar. If anyone were to entertain any doubt as to Merlin's nobility, his attire would put them to rest.

Arthur had layman's clothing on too. It was more comfortable to travel in and he would escape the notice of brigands much more easily, if he didn't stand out in his reds.

After leaving part of their escort behind, they travelled at a good pace. Before the first day was out, they reached the south of Rieti. They spent the night at an inn, their retinue occupying the lower common space while Merlin and Arthur had a too small room with two beds and a tiny window. 

It had been years since they had shared. Their Father's wealth had ensured that they needn't. Doing it now brought back memories of childhood, of a quieter time when their father was a only a cardinal, coming to visit their mother when church business didn't detain him. Merlin and Arthur had drifted apart thorough the years. They had new habits, and developed a new sense of personal space. Once they would have ran around in various states of undress. But now it wasn't so. They changed quickly and in the shadows, their nakedness wrapped in moonlight. Immediately after they slipped under the covers, and snuffed the candles, their flesh bare under the covers to counter the heat of the evening, the closeness of the room.

To the swishing of linens, Merlin moved in bed. “It feels new, doesn't it? Being thrown together again.”

Arthur understood why Merlin saw it that way. There was a new dimension in this way of sharing and it was as unfamiliar as having fresh skin in place of the old. It didn't fit. Yet echoes of known feelings surfaced in him. “Yes.” He moistened his lips and continued speaking. “And no. You're my brother, Merlin, and I want you to know that whatever happens I'll always...” He needed to negotiate the words in his head, make them sound right, fight his natural reticence to do so. “...be there for you.”

“I know that, Arthur.” Merlin turned in his bed, the covers bunching and slipping from under his armpits down to his waist. “I won't forget that just because I'm getting married. In fact, I'll always remember you first.”

The next day they reached as far as Spoleto, which was a papal fief, and thus safe territory. Its governor, a cardinal, treated them to a dinner and to a play, a farce that lasted into the small hours.

As they watched, the guests, mostly clergymen, but also noblemen from the surrounding areas, drank and drank, pouring large quantities of Umbrian wines into their golden chalices. Bawdy jokes circulated, riddles were told, while prelates whistled the notes to raunchy songs. As the play drew to a close, some entertained prostitutes, jiggling them on their knee, fondling them in public. Others didn't, but Arthur had a feeling it was only so as not to expose their secrets, not to give the Pope's children any ammunition against them. 

Both Arthur and Merlin were offered a girl. Arthur refused flatly, saying he meant to respect his vows. He was nodded at but he suspected he was being laughed at behind his back. Merlin stammered a no. Being a layman, he caused more of a scene. Thinking he didn't like the lady he was originally assigned, they tried pairing him up with others, told him that, as a man about to be married, he had first pick. Merlin continued saying no and retired alone. 

They started again the following morning after precious few hours of sleep. Traversing the hilly, green clad ground of Umrbia, they got to Gubbio. As guests of the Montefeltro family, they stayed for three days. They were treated to fine dinners and long concerts. They went hunting and they were walked along the city walls. Merlin received wedding gifts, which the lady of the manor had chosen herself. 

Senigallia was their last stop before reaching Pesaro. The town was in the hands of Giovanni della Rovere, the nephew of their Father's staunchest rival. Stopping there might have seemed daring, but it wasn't, for Giovanni was married to a Montefeltro lady, who was much more diplomatic than her husband. As such she was no competitor to the Pendragons. In fact, she threw open the doors of the city for them. Public entertainments took place in streets and squares. Private ones happened in the palace. Their days were long and their nights were short.

Finally they reached Pesaro. The castle was built on an elevation overlooking the sea. It had no moat but the walls were high and its towers, though clearly ancient, seemed strongly built. In the courtyard the Lady of Pesaro awaited. 

Freya was as pale as the moon, and had eyes as big as a doe's and as sweet. She had her dark hair in a net studded with pearls and wore a gown of black and white velvet sewn with more of the precious stones, silver thread decorating her bodice and hems. At her neck was a simple silver chain to which a small crucifix was attached. 

If there was a woman Merlin could fall in love with, Arthur understood when he saw her, it was this one. The clarity of that thought hurt deeply. 

Since she was an orphan with only an aunt to chaperone her, Freya welcomed them herself. She curtsied when she introduced herself to Merlin and Arthur, her voice feeble when she thanked Merlin for the present he gave her. “I'll cherish it,” she said, holding on to the little chest Merlin gave her. “I promise it, my lord.”

She proposed giving them a tour of the castle, from ramparts to cellars. When her aunt said it wasn't proper and that she couldn't do it alone, she said, “I'll show my lord his new house, dear aunt. I'm not afraid.”

Merlin smiled at her. 

Arthur wished he hadn't felt the same urge. 

That night a banquet took place in the great hall. It had seven courses, swan, boar, rabbit, ham among them. Silver plates and forks dotted tables covered with cream brocade cloths. Servants went to and fro, carrying bowls and trays, spits and tureens. Behind the high table, on a dais, stood the lute players, their music wafting across the room. 

Freya stood, a chalice in her hand. “I bid you welcome,” she told Merlin, Arthur, and their retainers. “I hope you find everything you were looking for here in Pesaro.” Turning towards Merlin, she added, in a quieter voice, “Welcome to your new home, my lord.”

The rooms they were assigned were in the wing that overlooked the promontory. The servants had just left, and Arthur was by the window admiring the wind-lashed view, when Merlin came in. He was wearing his night shirt, laces undone, and his breeches, the soft worn ones he had promised their father not to bring along. He closed the door softly behind him and said, “So what do you think of her?”

“She's beautiful.” Arthur continued looking out, at the moon. It was nearly full and shone like silver, like a beacon. “And seems kind. You could do worse.”

“I like her,” Merlin said, sitting on Arthur's bed. “But I'm not sure I love her yet.”

Arthur could have told Merlin that that was normal. Merlin barely knew Freya. It would come. Given time, it would come. But Arthur's words stopped in his throat and he didn't speak his piece of reasonable advice. He kept it to himself. It was a disservice to Merlin, but he just couldn't. He didn't think he could be level-headed about any of this. Yet he knew Merlin must marry. And he wished him happy too. Accepting the change, that was it, wasn't easy. 

Merlin sat at Arthur's table, said, “I don't think I'll sleep tonight.”

“You should.” Arthur stepped away from the window, but didn't wholly turn. “Tomorrow's an important day.”

Merlin nodded to himself. He walked to the door with his head bowed. He closed the door behind him with nary a sound.

Led by a disant cousin, Freya entered the keep's chapel. It was small, with a narrow transept, and one single aisle. Guests crowded the pews. Freya's relatives were present, decked in their finery, with pride of place when it came to their positioning. Representatives from the courts of other states and dukedoms also abounded. They stood in the back rows, their velvets and brocades rustling as they moved. 

Though it was morning, candles burned behind the altar and flower petals lay scattered across the runner, which covered the stones plastering the aisle. They released a soft scent, like spring, like nature at its finest. 

In front of the altar was Arthur, wearing choir dress, a twelve button scarlet mozzetta that encircled him down to the elbows. It went over his cassock and rochet, a ferraiuolo covering his shoulders in streams of red. 

As they waited for Freya to join Merlin at the altar, Arthur fixed Merlin with his gaze. Merlin smiled and Arthur returned the expression, his lips twitching when Arthur's smile broke wider.

Eventually Freya joined him. They knelt together on a cushion at Arthur's feet, Merlin looking up at him with trusting eyes, Freya's hand on top of Merlin's, her gaze lowered, her gown, stitched with gold all over, flowering around her. 

This was the moment. This was when Arthur and Merlin's lives veered apart. It would be strange thinking of Merlin living his life in Pesaro while Arthur continued in Rome. Though they had done this before, moving away for their studies, it wasn't exactly the same. It would be odd knowing Merlin was a part of another family, the one he would be starting, that wasn't theirs. There was a wound about to gape, like a tear in Arthur's side, and it deepened and deepened the more moments passed and he realised that he would have to get on with it. There was no getting back. 

“Let us pray,” Arthur told the congregation. Though he didn't feel the words he wanted Merlin's marriage to be perfect, to be blessed. “Be gracious, O Lord, to our humble supplications: and graciously assist this Thine institution, which Thou hast established for the increase of mankind: that what is joined together by Thine authority, may be preserved by Thine aid. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, Thy Son, who liveth and reigneth with Thee.”

The congregation answered with an amen. 

Arthur had never celebrated this ritual before. While he was a prelate, he hadn't often been needed to carry out his duties. He was his Father's right hand, his counsel, more than an ordained man of god. This much he knew however, he was supposed to talk about God and the institution of marriage.

But he didn't feel he would be able to without betraying his fundamental lack of a vocation, his real tenets. So he spoke politics, he exalted Freya's family and his own, discussed the significance of their union, describing the great future that would derive from it. He didn't know whether he was wishing that future on Merlin or if this was just a simpler topic to broach. Their father would have approved anyway and his speech fit the ceremony, made it elapse the way it was supposed to, occupying as much time as prayers would have.

Aware that it was time to, he moved to the final part of the ceremony. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, the words more of a whisper than they should have been if the whole congregation was to hear them, “vis accípere Freya, hic præséntem in tuam legítimam uxórem iuxta ritum sanctaæ matris Ecclésiæ?

Merlin took a big breath that made is shoulders rise. “Volo. “

Arthur had expected the words, had known they would come. Now that they did, they felt strange, almost foreign. They displaced him and left him reeling. But the ceremony must continue. There was nothing else for it. He spoke so that he could seal the deed. “Ego conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nómine Patris, et Fílii, X et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Ludovico Sforza has done away with his nephew and married his daughter to the Holy Roman Emperor,” Father said, pacing to and fro in his apartments. “Now Alfonso of Naples wants the dukedom.”

Arthur firmed his lips. “This will concern us.”

“Of course it will.” Father turned around, a spasm passing across his face. “Ludovico has called on the French for help.”

“Staking his old claim.” Arthur remembered it perfectly. Pope Innocent, his father's predecessor, had excommunicated and deposed Naples' former king. “Innocent offered Naples to Charles XVIII.”

“Which has started all this nonsense again.” Father scoffed. “With della Rovere egging him on, Now Charles has invaded Northern Italy.”

“With his aim Naples.” Arthur didn't think that was too hard to guess. It was what he'd do too if he was the King of France. “So he can take the crown from Alfonso, the crown that was promised him before.”

“And on his way he will make for us, make no mistake, my son,” Father said. “Given della Rovere is talking smack about us, he has every reason to want to depose us.”

“We're in deep trouble then.” Arthur didn't want to think of it so grimly, but with other cardinals vying for the Papal See and the King of France actually invading, there didn't seem to be much scope for optimism. Now Arthur wasn't so keen on his father being pope, but his remaining Vicar of Christ ensured the family's safety, Merlin's and Morgana's, as well as their Father's continued life. They had to take action so that none of them were in danger. “We need all our allies.”

“And there's the rub,” Father said, tamping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Our allies won't help.”

“How about the Sforzas?” With a matrimonial alliance, they were bound to lend a hand. “Surely, they'll be ready to march at our orders.”

“Young Freya stands against that.” Father cursed at the notion. “She won't lend us her troops.”

Arthur understood her position, but also saw how that would be awkward for them. Maybe Merlin could persuade her and her family to intervene. “We can write her. Change her mind.”

“I don't believe it will come to anything.” Father sank into a chair, massaging his temple. “No, that marriage was a wrong choice.”

“A wrong choice?” Arthur gulped. “What do you mean?”

Before Father could answer, Cedric, the Master of Ceremonies announced himself. He needed the Pope to sign a few papers, he said. It wouldn't be long, for the documents were few. Father put quill to paper, asked a few questions, to which he got detailed answers, then dismissed the functionary. Once they were again alone, he reprised the subject they'd been discussing. “Merlin's marriage hasn't turned out to be as useful as we thought it would be.”

“They haven't had children yet, true.” That was the most solid basis of any alliance. But that didn't mean Merlin wasn't happy in his marriage. Arthur couldn't know. He had no way to barring their correspondence, which didn't make mention of such private matters, likely for Merlin's fear of being spied upon. “But the marriage's salvageable.”

“We're of a mind to annul it,” Father said, blowing air through his mouth. “If Freya won't lend us arms, she's no good to us, and too close to the Milan Sforzas, who're friendly with the invading French.”

“I see, but--”

“Arthur--” Father fixed his glare on him, “the game of alliances has shifted. If the Sforzas are no more use to us, then we will ditch them.”

Arthur was not so partial to Freya that he himself would be hurt by it. Some of the practicalities of such a dissolution made him actually breathe out in relief. But Merlin was bound to suffer and Arthur would defend Merlin to the death, in spite of his own feelings on the matter. “Father, this concerns his new family. You can't take it away from him.”

Father waved him away. “Of course, we can. We're Pope.”

Arthur had enough canon low down to know how the proposed plan might be carried out. But there was a glitch in Father's plan. “You can't ratify an annulment without either bride or bridegroom asking for it. I don't think Freya will because it would tarnish her good name and make her hard to marry again and, as for Merlin, he's in good faith. He would never hurt the poor woman.”

“The boy will be made to comply,” Father said, brow crinkling as he thought further. “If he refuses, we'll forge his signature.”

“You can't do that!” Father, Arthur was aware, had done many things that were reprehensible to get where he was. Corruption was high on that list. Nepotism too, considering the place Arthur occupied within the church ranks. But this went beyond the pale. “You can't do this to him!”

“We can and we will.” Father's expression clouded over till it got stormy. “Write to him and break the news to him. Tell him there is no going back unless the Lady Freya reneges her family and turns her armies over to us.”

Arthur was confident that wouldn't happen. While he wasn't intimate with his sister in law, he thought her steady and loyal. She wouldn't betray her family anymore than Arthur would Merlin. “I'll tell him what you have in mind.” To warn him, protect him. “But I can't guarantee he'll take this meekly.”

“There's no need for him to,” Father said. “We'll have this done.”

When he got to his rooms, Arthur ordered a tray of fruit and a glass wine from a departing servant. Alone, he changed into layman's clothes, discarding his cassock at the bottom of a chair, and donning worn slippers. Once he was comfortable in jerkin and doublet, he sat at his table. With a key he opened one of the drawers. He tapped its bottom till the base panel slid off. Rooting into the empty space, he found a bundle of papers, which he extracted.

They were all letters from Pesaro, from Merlin, carefully collected by order of arrival, and held together by a piece of red silk. The seal of the one of top was still unbroken. Arthur proceeded to crack it and read the message the epistle hid.

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_This is my seventh month here in Pesaro. My days here have been a mixture of hectic and slow. As you know, at first I was very busy getting to know all the courtiers and retainers. There are quite a number of them and not mistaking one for the other has been a hard task. Any faux pas would have upset quite a few nobles. And since most of them don't like me, that would have made matters worse._

_Often I wish they would approve of me, but with the name I bear it's highly unlikely._

_Over the past few months there's been quite a lot of coming and going of ambassadors, especially from Milan. I've made them welcome, but I have a feeling a game is afoot of which I only understand parts. Yet I can't forbid them the run of the house without taking all power from Freya. That, dear brother, is something I don't want to do. I respect her too much for that to happen._

_She's doing her best for me. In fact, a celebration is going to be held for me a week from now. Freya insisted on honouring me so. I wish she hadn't, for I can tell the court isn't wild about it. But since the fête's been announced, there's no way I can avoid it without letting down Freya._

_Freya... our marriage is full of respect and quiet agreement. We never quarrel and though she's quiet and speaks little, she's always kind to me. I've found her loyal too. Whenever I make a diplomatic mistake, into which I seem to blunder often, she makes sure nobody notices and keeps it hushed, protecting my good name. I've vowed to shield her in return, to make sure no one can hurt her._

_All in all my days pass by quietly, except recently. As I mentioned there are winds of war in the north and the comings and goings of envoys has made life more eventful._

_Though I promised not to complain at all, both in deference to my wife, and for myself, I will admit I miss you entirely too much for comfort. I miss your ribbing and your know-it-all smile when it comes to putting me into place. I miss those times when you'd get earnest and give me solemn life lessons. I miss your voice and the tone it would get. I look back on those times together with a fondness that hurts in the chest and I find myself crying over the letter I'm writing. Since I can't be seen shedding tears over my correspondence, – it'd raise a cloud of gossip – I'm going to part from you now._

_May God keep you, my dearest Arthur,_

_your loving brother ever,_

_Merlin._

 

Burying his head in his hands, Arthur sighed. He wasn't one for crying. Father had urged on him the notion it was below him. Be crafty, he'd said. Be politic, he'd warned. And Arthur had taken that lesson to heart. So, though his eyes were moist, he didn't cry. 

He dipped his quill into ink instead and started writing a fresh letter. He didn't know what to say, but he sensed he had to string some words together, convey the message. Merlin must know what situation he was getting into.

 

_Dear Merlin,_

_don't be a little boy and fret about missing me. There is no earthly reason for you to. I'm not so far away that I can't reach you in a few days and some separation bolsters the spirit. Besides, I'll always be your older brother and nothing can change the fact. So man up and stop sighing over your letters from home._

_I'm very disappointed in learning you're not getting all the respect that is your due. I understand that our family had enemies, but whoever is ungracious to you shall face me. I'll teach them some manners. You're not only the son of the Pope, a fact which should command attention, but you're also a rather upright person, albeit too sentimental, and people should learn to value you as such. Your deserts are many._

_I'm glad your marriage to Freya is--_

 

Arthur stopped writing, reread what he'd put down so far, then crossed out the last line. The happiness of Merlin's marriage was not something he wished to discuss, not in letter form and not orally either. It was a consideration he suppressed for the most part. Yet the subject needed to be tackled. 

He started again.

_As you've mentioned, political upheaval is on the horizon. With a right of free passage from Milan, France has invaded Northern Italy, aiming for the conquest of Naples. Father is concerned and in a very delicate position._

 

Arthur didn't think he should spell this one in its entirety. He couldn't be certain the message wouldn't be intercepted. So he'd better leave his fears of a papal deposition out. He most certainly didn't want to give his enemies that piece information. It'd make them stronger; it would make them believe it was already a done thing. Merlin could read between the lines. 

_He suggests the Sforza help on with his plight. If they don't –_

 

Once again Arthur must think of this missive being tampered with. He couldn't state things outright. But he needed to inform Merlin.

 

_If they don't, your marriage cannot be safeguarded. Our father has ideas about it, which probably won't meet your approval. I suggest your prepare yourself to act against them, though I personally don't know how you can stop him from putting them into action._

_Having said this, I don't want you to worry unduly and to fret yourself to death. I promise you that as long as I'm here nothing bad will happen to you. I extend that vow to your family._

 

Arthur signed himself, sealed the letter, and confided it to a trusted messenger.

Though the wind raked leaves from the tree and scattered them about, the weather was still relatively mild, with errant spots of chill. The garden in the Pendragon villa was bare of roses and most other flowers too. The bushes, however, were still ripe and green, though brown mulch collected at their foot. 

The bees were gone and birds hid in their nests, only poking their heads out from time to time. It was not youngling season. 

Mother and Morgana occupied the table in the garden.

Mother was stitching a cloth, her needle moving quickly, yellow thread glistening in the sunlight. The figure she was basting was that of a blond page boy kneeling at his lady's feet, his ringlets as golden as those of an angel adorning a chapel's roof. The lady pictured towering over him was clothed in starred blue with ermine accents, and smelling a dark stemmed rose of the purest white.

Morgana too had a cloth to work on, a simple panel decorated with fresh buds, but she wasn't busying herself with it. Her head was in a large leather book illuminated with colourful illustrations.

When she saw him, she said, “I wouldn't be as patient as Griselda to save my life.”

“I see you're reading Boccaccio, sister.”

“I am.” Morgana tossed her hair back; it was a luscious mass she chose not to pin or braid. Only a single clip in the shape of a butterfly firmed it in the back. “I would never put up with a husband who disrespects me. Not even if I was rewarded in the end. It's just something I will not do.”

Their mother smiled. “You won't have to, my dear. I never had to.”

“But you're married to Gorlois though he's never here,” Morgana said, fingering her book absently. “And then there is our Father.”

“That may be true.” Mother put away her work. “But I'm not their prisoner and I'm not their servant. I entered into those relationships fully willing and I kept my freedom within them.”

“But how?” Morgana frowned. “It doesn't seem possible.”

“Wit and wisdom, my dear daughter.” Mother's lips tilted upwards. “Wit and wisdom.”

“Well, I'll escape if my husband mistreats me.” Morgana set her chin in a moue of defiance. “I don't care what the nuns said about obedience or what Father wants. I'll cut my spouse's throat rather than put up with any nonsense.”

Ordinarily Arthur would have laughed at his sister's vehemence. Today he barely took notice.

His mother didn't fail to take in Arthur's reaction though . “Something's wrong with you, I can sense it.”

Arthur could have bluffed or equivocated, but he was in no mood to. He was amidst family and if there was one person who was sure to care about Merlin almost as much as Arthur did, that was their mother. “Father means to annul Merlin's marriage if Freya doesn't lend her armies to him.”

Mother tilted her head. “I thought you weren't partial to Merlin being away.” Her eyes went smaller as she studied him. “You've been practically morose ever since he left.”

Arthur refused to acknowledge that. He shifted in his seat one one time too many and folded and unfolded his hands. “Merlin's life has already be shaken up a lot. This can't be good for him.”

“I don't suspect it would be,” Mother said. “Especially so many months into the wedding. What if she's with child? How can Uther --” she cleared her throat. “How can his Holiness annul a marriage if there's offspring?”

While Merlin hadn't made any mention of any pregnancy, Arthur couldn't exclude one a priori. Merlin and Freya had been married long enough. Still that didn't seem to be what all this hung upon. “That's immaterial and we both know it. If Father wants rid of this marriage, he'll emit a bull saying it's null and void. No matter whether the union's been consummated.”

“How horrible,” Morgana said. “To tear a family up like that. Poor Freya.”

“Poor Merlin.” Arthur couldn't fail to think of him first.

“Whatever happens, we must face it.” Mother sent them both a pointed look. “And be there for Merlin should he need it.” She touched Arthur's wrist. “But for now I don't want to see any dark faces. It won't help any. And you can't live in torment, Arthur. Don't have me worry for you.”

Arthur promised he would neither brood nor harbour dark thoughts till he knew for certain what was to pass.

With nightfall, the temperature dropped, and a milky fog spread out from the banks of the Tiber to the streets of Rome. It was thick, soupy, cloying; it clung to skin and clothes and made it hard to breathe. The wind extinguished the light of the torches that hung from street walls sconces while the light of the moon played upon puddles. Dogs brayed in the far away darkness, prowling empty thoroughfares in which footsteps echoed.

Arthur had just passed a jutting bridge and entered a series of side streets that would lead him towards the Vatican, when he was flattened against the wall of a closed alleyway, an elbow at his throat, a glinting bodkin pointed at his Adam's apple.

“The Pope's son.” The man was dark, tall, powerful of build, and wore a no nonsense expression fit to put a chill in any man's bones. “You shouldn't be abroad at night, alone at that.”

Was this some kind of warning? Arthur couldn't quite believe his ears. “I may be a man of the cloth, but I can look after myself.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said, “that dagger at your belt. I'm sure it's going to serve you well.”

Arthur would not be mentioning the other one concealed in his boot. “I won't bow. If you want to kill me, you mustn't expect me to put up no fight.”

“A fighting cleric.” The man stepped back, his bodkin still in his hand. “Remarkable.”

Arthur dove lightning fast and took his blade from its boot strap. “Not as much as you believe. I'm no easy prey.”

They danced around each other, weapons pointed, moonlight and shadows chasing in their steps. 

The man said, “My name's Myror, and I'm not here to kill you.”

“No?” Arthur laughed. No words had ever sounded funnier to him. “Then why are you aiming your weapon at me?”

“I was paid to do away with you, that is true,” Myror said. “But I don't like my employer. Kisses the cross and deals murder in the shadows.”

“Am I to understand your morality was piqued?” Arthur feinted to the right, giving Myror's blade a wide berth.

“You doubt I have any?” Myror smiled, showing no trace of discomfiture at the implied slight. “My mother was devout. I don't like false priests.”

Arthur didn't say he was one too, a man without a vocation donning holy robes. “So what do you plan to do?” 

Myror kept dancing around him. “I bank on betraying my employer. He promised me a hundred ducats for your head. For double the sum, I'll rest my blade.”

Arthur knew not to trust Myror or any man threatening him so boldly. “I won't discuss this unless you sheathe your bodkin.”

With a bow, Myror did so. “Now I'm at a disadvantage.”

Arthur didn't believe it for a moment. The man was a killer for hire and quick on his feet. A move and he might gain the upper hand again. No, Arthur wouldn't disarm. He was no fool. “Tell me who the man who hired you is, and we can talk money.”

“By and by, your eminence,” Myror said. “By and by.”

This, Arthur knew, would be a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur was studying a list of names, when Merlin entered his chambers. His clothes were simple, dusty, his hair sweaty and sticking to his skull. “I've ridden all the way from Pesaro,” he said, walking up to Arthur. “It's official. My marriage had been dissolved.”

Arthur pivoted a notch, taking Merlin more carefully in. His eyes were preternaturally big. His mouth hung slightly open and he was flushed. That might be because of the strain of the journey. If he had galloped all the way from Pesaro, even with breaks, that was possible. Or it might be because he was that upset at the news his father had sprung on them. Arthur didn't ask. Didn't think he could with Merlin here. There was a chance his probing would hurt him “I know. I'm sorry. I tried to warn you.”

Flinging himself in his arms, Merlin said, “I know you did. I know you did.”

Arthur's hand came up to rest on Merlin's back. It was shaking subtly. “You shouldn't have come.”

Without disengaging, Merlin shook his head, “How could I not?”

“Do you know?” Arthur didn't want to step back from the embrace. It had been so long since he'd last seen Merlin and Merlin has started it so he felt free to revel in the shape of him, the smell of him, that song of the senses that came every time he was close to him. “Merlin, tell me.”

Merlin nodded. “The King of France is close to Rome.”

“He'll storm the city and depose our Father,” Arthur said, thinking of what the future held in store for them. By the current looks of it, it wasn't anything good. “You shouldn't be here. You might be safe elsewhere.”

Merlin put some distance between them, with his eyes so wide, he looked appalled. “Do you really think I could have stood away from my own family?”

“After what Father's done to you...”

“Never mind what he's done to me.” Merlin's face clouded over. “I couldn't stay away, knowing you were in danger.”

Merlin's words hit him hard and took his breath. Arthur pulled his ribcage towards his spine in a deep breath. “I'd rather have known you were safe.”

Merlin's brow crinkled. “You don't think I want the same for you, Arthur? Really?”

Arthur thought Merlin's prioritising should be different. Arthur was the eldest and it made sense for him to be the one to watch out for the rest of the family. For Merlin it was not the same. He had a right to think of himself first. It was right that he should do so. Arthur didn't share this however, for he knew it wouldn't go over well. “You should have learnt from the Roman Cardinals. They're all fleeing in fear of the French.”

“I'd rather be the only one in Rome and stand by your side,” Merlin said, “then be safe and alone.”

Given Merlin's position on the subject, Arthur thought it wiser to bring him up to speed. Not only were cardinals leaving Rome in the hopes of saving themselves but some were acting in an even more underhand manner.

“So you believe this Myror,” Merlin said. “You think he's right and than some prelate or other is trying to kill off all Pendragons.”

“He has reason to lie.” Arthur spoke his thoughts aloud. “But I don't think he is.”

“I urge caution.” Merlin pressed his lips together. “I don't want anything to happen to you.”

Days passed and reports flooded in. The King of France was making it closer and closer. The City of Florence having granted him right of passage, his armies made it through the cities and marched south. The lords of several castles within papal lands surrendered at the first hint of danger and soon the Gallic troops were north of Rome. 

Father was in a frenzy of pacing, but even so he refused to leave the Vatican for Castel Sant'Angelo. No matter how Arthur represented to him the safety of its bastions, Father would not be moved. He had made up his mind to stay and so he would. If he left, he said, he might as well bid adieu to the papacy. No, he intended sitting on the papal throne for as long as he lived. He wouldn't be running away scared like a headless chicken. 

Though he didn't mean to escape, he also didn't intend to give the King of France the wrong message. “Since you're here,” he told Merlin. “You might as well lead the papal armies against the French.”

Merlin nodded.

“He can't stop them.” Arthur blinked fast. “They're thrice our numbers and armed with cannon.”

“I'm sure Merlin can use tactics,” Father said. “We haven't paid for tutors to teach him military strategy for nothing.”

Merlin, Arthur knew, wasn't cut out for a military leader. He hadn't liked those lessons. He didn't enjoy bearing weapons. He never contemplated duelling. Riding he liked because it involved horses, – and he loved animals – but any other martial endeavour he avoided. “You can't send him to face the French. He'll die in the attempt.”

“I'm not asking him to die.” Father muttered under his breath. “I'm asking him to do his duty by his family.”

Arthur privately thought they were one and the same. “Then allow me to go with him.”

“What for?” Father arched an eyebrow. “You're a man of the cloth. You don't belong on a battlefield.”

Arthur had to think fast on his feet. “To bless the troops.”

Father said, “In that case you may go.”

The French lines were double those of the papal army. Their cavalry, foot soldiers, and artillery men were lined up across a plain just outside the gates of Rome. Their banners fluttered in the wind, their standards held aloft. The King himself sat on his horse, a white stallion, domineering the first line, his aides at his side. Lines of cannon gaped at the Roman soldiers, carefully trained on them.

“We have no cannon,” Arthur told Merlin. “We don't have the necessary men. If we face them, we'll die.”

Merlin pursed his lips, tugging on his horse's reins. “I know, Arthur.”

“So you agree with me.” Arthur had no idea where Merlin stood on this. He'd accepted the task their father had assigned to him, but Arthur didn't know whether he meant to fulfil it. “You're not going to engage them in battle?”

“Not if I can help it.” Merlin grimaced. “I have another idea.”

“Care to share?”

“Come with me.” Merlin took a white flag and rode off towards the enemy line.

Arthur cursed Merlin's recklessness under his breath and galloped after him.

As their luck would have it, the French didn't shoot them or otherwise hamper them, but abided by the rules of war, respecting the white flag. Merlin kneed his horse towards that of the French King. 

“Your Highness,” Merlin said, “I'm the son of the Pope and leader of this army.” Merlin lowered his eyes. “And this is my brother, Cardinal Pendragon.”

“I'm sure we're honoured to make your acquaintance.” The French King looked over at the Roman armies. “Though the occasion isn't of the best.”

“The situation is not of Rome's making,” Merlin said, holding tight onto the reins as his horse pranced under him. “We want no discord.”

“Alas we cannot agree.” The French King didn't look at all sad. “If the Pope of Rome is against us, then we must perforce be against him.”

“The Pope of Rome is not hostile to the French.” Merlin held his head up this time. “In fact if the French were to win Naples for themselves, the Pope would crown you King of Naples as well as of France.”

“Is that so?” The king tilted his head to the side. “So there's no enmity between us?”

“None whatsoever,” Merlin said.

Arthur didn't know what game Merlin was playing, he was only aware of the importance of the King's answer. All hung in the balance and everything depended on his reaction to Merlin's dare.

“In that case we won't take up arms against our friends,” the King said. “We'll discuss the terms of our agreement in Rome with the Pope himself.”

Merlin sent Arthur a look. The King of France had practically requested admittance into the city. Refusing him would be tantamount to an act of war. Once within Rome with his army to command he could well depose Father. Yet he had accepted the offer of friendship Merlin had extended. That was a first step towards an alliance, one they couldn't ignore. 

“Very well,” Merlin said, “I'll lead you into the city.

When the King of France was out of earshot, Arthur asked Merlin. “Whatever tempted you to do that?”

“You're right.” Even on horseback, Merlin leant closer to him. “I'm not a soldier. So I decided to avoid confrontation. I used diplomacy instead.”

“You've done a lot of wising up, Merlin.” Arthur broke into a smile. “I'm impressed.”

Merlin's worried frown dissolved to give way to one of his grins of old.

The King of France stayed four days in Rome. He got in talks with father, he took part in dinners that were given in his honour, and was shown the beauties of Rome by a guide. He constantly asked after the investiture to the Kingdom of Naples, and Father was quick to promise him that it if he defeated the Neapolitan forces, he would get its crown. A pact had been made. When Charles left, Arthur and Merlin themselves escorted him to the gates. Charles said he looked forward to returning. Arthur silently wished he wouldn't.

A tentative calm descended over Rome. The worst, it seemed, was behind them. Since no looting had taken place, the populace was cautiously going back to their lives. The businesses that had closed down in fear of a sacking re-opened. Men and women coursed through the streets again. The mood was almost festive, though the cloud of the King's return hung over them all still.

Though Merlin had behaved well, saving the city, he wasn't enjoying father's favour. He was unhappy with Father's decision to marry him off and then part him from his wife and told him so during a formal audience. Father would brook no opposition. So he told him not to come back until he'd changed his mind and accepted Father's politics.

That left Arthur alone to dine with his Father. With more than half the cardinals still away from Rome for fear of French reprisals, the Pope was left alone with his son. His tasters stood either side of him but a step behind his chair, like guardian angels. They had tried his broth and his bread and were now silent as Father talked. 

“It was fortunate the King of France bought our offer hook, line and sinker,” he said. “If he gets Naples, we'll put the crown on his head ourselves, testifying to a fait accompli. If he doesn't, then we'll say we're sorry but there was nothing to be done. It was our intention to favour him. And all the while we continue to sit on the throne of St Peters. It's a master stroke of genius.”

“One that is entirely Merlin's.” Arthur knew it was wiser not to point it out. But he couldn't help himself in the least. “If he'd engaged battle--” And been as prone to be bellicose as many youths were. “Then we wouldn't be talking about this.”

“Merlin's fine.” Father clapped his hands, ordering more food in. “But he will need to stop pestering us with the plight of his former wife.”

“You might see why he's fighting for her rights.” A woman in a position so peculiar as hers, Arthur was certain, needed all the defending there could be. A sensitive man like Merlin would have sensed it from the start.

“I don't see why he should worry so much,” Father said. “She'll fend for herself. It is no longer a concern of his.”

Though food was being served by a collection of servants, Father went on on the subject. “I thought he wasn't keen to marry, so I don't understand the fuss he's putting up now that he isn't anymore.” He watched as the servants retreated. “He should learn to accept a gift horse.”

With the servants gone, the tasters stepped forward. One cut into a chunk of glazed roast, the other into the leg of a cockerel. The first taster chewed slowly, then retreated into the shadows of Father's chair. The second taster carved a morsel, put it in his mouth, and swallowed. He, too, regained his position behind Father.

Father said, “Merlin will come to his senses soon enough. You'll see. I know him well enough.”

Arthur was about to reply, when the second taster fiddled with his collar, getting his attention. Next the taster wrapped his hand around his throat, making gagging noises. The more he choked, the bluer he became in the face, his lips paling together with his features. Before he could fall, Arthur was there to ease him down. Blood erupted from his mouth. At first it did so in thin rivulets that only stained his chin. But after the first wave, the blood surged from his mouth like a tide, staining his whole front. 

Arthur shouted, “Help! Help! Now!”

But before any assistance could come, the man had convulsed and breathed his last breath. By the time the guards did arrive, the taster was in the throes of death. They'd scarcely sat him upright to help him breathe, when he passed away. Unable to do anything anymore for him, Arthur picked himself up and ran into the kitchens.

There were no servants about, but a man was pocketing a vial. He wore simple, menial clothes, and a hood that concealed his identity. 

“Stop where you are,” Arthur said.

But upon sight of him the man lunged, a knife glinting in his hand. Arthur sidestepped, inverting their position. The man lunged at him again, but Arthur danced away, with his back to the banked kitchen oven. Arthur feinted a rush, but the man, his father's would be killer, simply smiled. He moved quickly, cutting left and right, jabbing at him. Arthur couldn't back away, he could only lean this way and that, looking for more room to the side. Arthur averted the next thrust, which was aimed at his stomach, with his arm. When the man got near enough, Arthur turned to his side. When his attacker lowered his guard, Arthur let his fist hook the man's chin, dealing him a blow that propelled his head backwards. But that didn't stop his opponent in the least and Arthur ducked under a flailing blow. That scarcely bought him time, and, with a grunt, his father's poisoner charged Arthur, his blade level with Arthur's heart. Arthur intercepted his arm, putting pressure on the man's wrist, hoping he'd drop the knife.

He didn't. He continued pressing it towards Arthur till both were unbalanced and rolled on the floor. It was all Arthur could do to keep the blade away from his vital parts. With a heave he inverted their positions, struggling against his attacker. They vaulted over, and then again, the knife between them. Arthur used all his upper body strength, protecting his flesh from being pierced. As they rolled over once more, Arthur managed to tip the knife away from him.

The man who'd attacked him grunted, exhaled, and stopped struggling.

Pulling away from the poisoner, Arthur saw the blade embedded in his middle. His front was covered in blood as was Arthur's. But Arthur, though his heartbeat was in his ears, wasn't in pain. He checked himself over for wounds, but he had none. With trembling hands, he checked his attacker's pulse. 

There was none. Arthur had killed the man. Arthur had cut his life short. Put an end to it.

With a groan, he stumbled to his feet, climbing stairs, crossing empty corridors and darkened passageways and tottered into his room.

In the darkness, he saw a figure, that of a man limned by moonlit.

“Who's there?” Arthur asked, his voice pitched law, scratchy.

“It's Merlin--”

Arthur interrupted him before I could say anything. “I killed a man, Merlin.” He stepped into the moonlight so he could show his hands. “I'm a murderer.”

Moving over to him, Merlin caught his bloody hands in his, then said, “Tell me what happened.”

Arthur did, without sparing a single detail. Merlin listened attentively, his face cast in a frown. 

When Arthur was done, Merlin walked Arthur to the basin and washed his hands with his, pouring water over them, rubbing off stains and cradling his palms in the cup of his. With a towel he dried Arthur's hands. Then wrapped Arthur in an embrace punctuated by the rhythm of their breathing.

In the silence of the night, Merlin kissed his brow, his cheeks, then lastly fit his lips loosely around Arthur's, touching them in repeated motions like the beat of the wings of a butterfly.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur dissolved into the touch, came apart, and lost himself in Merlin, who kissed his lips with the softness of his, who opened his mouth with his and touched tongues with him. Overwhelming love built up inside him in guises that were both old and new. Feeling surged within him in tall waves; everything zeroed down to Merlin's presence close to him, to this moment of perfect integrity, to the forging of this bond, which recreated him anew. 

From the numbness of despair he broke into sentience, enjoying the feeling of Merlin's lips on his own, the lightness of his hand cradling his face. It was a point of warmth in a cold universe. 

It was only once the kiss had spent itself that Arthur's presence of mind returned, that he thought again, that he considered the meaning of his actions as juxtaposed to facts, to the reality of what they were. “We can't,” he told Merlin. “We can't, we're--” It didn't even need saying; they both knew. And while Merlin must have forgotten, Arthur couldn't. “Merlin, it's forbidden.”

Merlin's face didn't grow shadowed. He didn't recoil as Arthur had expected him to. All lines were chiselled out of his face. He seemed calm, his features a portrait of steadiness. “I don't care. We've moved past that.”

It was true in a fashion. Arthur was a sinner and beyond the pale with his murder of the poisoner. Merlin should have been married and only wasn't because their father had tampered with the rules of the Church. In the eyes of heaven he still belonged to Freya. His kissing Arthur must have branded him a sinner too. “Merlin, I--”

Merlin kissed him again. There was a new edge to it this time, something raw and bruised about how he had initiated the touch, about the way he pressed their lips hard together, about the way he let their tongues tangle. “Arthur.” Merlin's voice was low, a burr of his usual tones. “We can have this.”

He dragged his lips from Arthur's mouth to his cheek, nosing it, breathing softly but more quickly.

Arthur's mind reeled chaotically. He told himself this was wrong, wrong in ways that didn't bear counting, ways that should be primal and instinctive. He ought to protect Merlin, shield him from evil the way he'd done since they were so young they could barely look after themselves. But Merlin was the one taking action, the one leading the dance, and he didn't seem to recognise the taboo. And if he couldn't, if this was good for him, then Arthur couldn't deny him. He'd never been capable of saying no to Merlin in any way that counted. Moreover, he had to admit that he wanted this. This might brand a sin on his body, but he desired Merlin with all the fire in his him. 

Warm lips touched his again; fingers carded his hair, palms ran over his nape. With a gesture Arthur barely noticed, Merlin released his belt, lifted his tunic. His mouth to Arthur's throat, he touched him all over with hands that were steady one moment and shaking the next.

Arthur trembled with the same intensity, felt it all down to his bones. He didn't want to stop it and if his soul got blackened for it, so be it.

Together they pulled Arthur's tunic off. Merlin nuzzled his throat and shoulders, caressed his arms, was as reverent as though he was in church. Arthur gave him his sanction by calling his name. He knew he was about to fall and was hastening the event himself. 

Walking him to the bed, Merlin pushed him down. Arthur perched on the edge and leaned back on his elbows, the sheets cool with the air of the night. Now committed to this, Arthur reached for Merlin, touched his face with his hands, cupped his neck, kissed his face, took his mouth, holding him tight by the back of his head. Touching Merlin drove a thrill right into his heart, burned his palms. It was everything he'd ever wanted, water to the thirsty, food to the starved, sight to the blind.

He shifted his weight, lifted his hips. 

Merlin unclothed himself in the pale moonlight, revealing sharp angles, white skin. When their bodies touched again they were almost bare. They kissed anew. Merlin's lips were by now swollen and bruised. That sent desire travelling through Arthur, the the same kind that spouse felt for spouse. Spurred by it, he flipped Merlin over, placing his hands either side of Merlin's head, and sucked at the softness between neck and shoulder, along the line of bone, and leftwards towards his pec. 

Merlin rose from the bed, his back arching, running his palms along Arthur's spine. Arthur gasped with the brand of it, with the power of that touch. He was being anointed, blessed anew; the perception of it was clear to him like the lightning that scored his skin now. It showed him the way forward the way God directed St Paul. There was no thought of sin now, no burning fear. 

Letting Merlin straddle his thighs, he rolled over again. Merlin kissed him long and slowly before pulling back, his chest filling and dipping, his expression earnest. When he pressed his lips against Arthur's, Arthur released a sob. His heart was beating so fast Arthur was afraid it would stop out of the sheer overload; his whole body flushed from the closeness to Merlin's, such a one he'd never contemplated before, not in this guise. And yet the pieces of the puzzle that he was were reforming, coalescing into a whole that made sense. Whatever configuration their relationship had taken in the past – however different and this unthinkable back then– this hurt much less, or rather hurt with an intensity of joy that left him breathless, speechless. 

Breaking their kiss, Merlin drew back. He lay in shadow but his eyes still shone, his pupils widening till they became enormous with lust, and Merlin's all eyes. The features were known to him, of course, a configuration Arthur knew like the back of his hand. But now, with the stamp of desire on it, it was different. 

Their next kiss was slow, questing, tiny flicks and brushes of the tongue. When Arthur sighed into it, Merlin climbed off him, and pulled off his small clothes, moving back on top of him as soon as he was done. The contact, now they were both naked, sent Arthur gasping for the next breath, sent him hankering for the next moment, Merlin's next move. 

When Merlin shifted in his lap, their cocks brushing, Arthur threw his head back and bucked. Merlin bent over him, searching out his Adam's apple with his mouth, moving on top of him so their pricks glided one against the other. The tip of Arthur's went wetter by the second. 

On top of him, Merlin kissed his throat, his upper chest, snapping his hips into Arthur, shifting them in small, neat thrusts. Arthur's body went hot, his cheeks flushed, and he tensed with a hunger for Merlin that knew no bounds.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, not knowing how to voice his thoughts, aware that his desires should burn in the dark and be expressed in silence. 

“There needs to be more,” Merlin rasped. “Between us.”

Squeezing oil from a slipper lamp onto his fingers, Merlin placed himself between his legs. Arthur shivered, goose bumps pebbling his skin, his heartbeat speeding with the foreknowledge of what they were about to do.

While Arthur was a man of the cloth, he knew what happened now, had partaken before taking vows. In the distant past when thoughts of church obligations were dim. He welcomed it now, could do nothing but, didn't know how to exist without it. 

Merlin trailed his fingers down his abdomen, skirted them lower and lower, until his palm was wrapped around Arthur's cock. Arthur thrust in Merlin's hand and Merlin let him, until he moved his touch elsewhere, penetrating him with fingers that were slick though they felt blunt. “This is going to violate your vows, all of this,” Merlin said. “Do you want me to?”

Arthur said yes in the most broken of voices and when Merlin hesitated he repeated the word in a forceful tone. As Merlin touched him inside, Arthur's breath caught. It burned. It burned with the fierceness of pleasure-pain. Arthur arched his back, pulling Merlin to him and fastening their lips together in a kiss so desperate it tasted like absolution. When it was done, Merlin broke away, slipping in the space between Arthur's legs again, lifting Arthur's, positioning himself. 

“I don't care about my vows.” They'd almost paled to insignificance. While Arthur believed in uprightness, in honour, he couldn't believe in the value of chastity anymore, not when the Grail was Merlin, not when their union was about to become one of flesh and blood, a transubstantiation of love. “I know what we are, but if you forgive me...”

“I forgive you,” Merlin said. “Like I forgive myself.” 

Merlin opened him up with his cock then, moving inside with one smooth thrust. Before snapping his hips forwards again, he paused, staring at him with eyes widened by love and surprise, trembling a fine trembling that took his breath. Then the moment passed, and Merlin pushed in and out of him with the easy flexing of his body. 

Arthur felt all the pleasure of it, all the exhilaration of it. It was of the flesh, lit up by nerve endings that flared with each stab of Merlin's; yet it was also a joy of the soul, a deep, boundless, blinding love Arthur didn't know how to share if not like this. It had bloomed inside him at the dawn of time, when he was so young he only understood the affection of family, but now it was fiercer, steadier, truer. 

Pleasure washing over him in uneven tides, Arthur moaned. “Merlin,” he said. 

“I think this pure,” Merlin told him, bringing his hands up to the headboard and bracing himself. “I think this right.” He rolled his hips in long, slow circles; he inched them forward, drew back, twisted sideways, causing Arthur to break down into wild washes of physical bliss. They untethered him from any mooring he'd ever known. They undid the parts of him that he'd thought rooted in his soul, giving it brand new shapes to cling to. 

Closing his eyes, Arthur let himself feel it as Merlin moved inside him, in balanced motions that became faster and jerkier the more they repeated themselves. Arthur could tell when Merlin was nearly done, because his rhythm fragmented, broke up. Shuddering, he came.

Arthur thought it it time to see to himself, when Merlin bent over him and took him in his mouth. He didn't do much of anything, suckling gently, rather aimlessly, around the tip and the length. But it was hot like the circles of hell and Arthur had long been overstrung.

For Arthur the dam was broken, and he came, his orgasm surging like a tall breaker. 

In the darkness of the chamber they both panted. Merlin kissed his shoulder, his head, then lay down next to him. He said, “I'm not sorry. I'll never be sorry.”

“Neither will I.” Arthur knew that it wouldn't be easy for them from now on, but he could tell he would never repent it. 

“I know I'll look for more of this,” Merlin said, turning on his side and wrapping an arm around Arthur. “I know I'm not done.”

Arthur should have urged caution; should have encouraged Merlin to seek love elsewhere, but his was so deep and abiding that he couldn't. “Neither am I.”

Even in the absence of light Merlin studied him. “Are you sorry that you broke your vows?”

And the laws of man and nature, Arthur thought but didn't say. They were both aware of what they'd done. “No. I'm not sorry.” Arthur swallowed. Admitting it cost him a lot. He'd always believed in justice. “As a matter of fact, I'd do it again.”

“Me too.” Merlin flattened himself back on the bed.

A wild stab of joy coursed through Arthur before it was darkened again by the drift of his thoughts. “What if they marry you off again?”

Merlin closed his eyes. “We'll get to it when we get to it.”

Arthur believed that was a fair way of thinking and while he wanted assurances their bond would not be torn asunder by external events, he was aware he could not have them. He could enjoy what they had, the moment, and a promise of a future that was theirs for the taking. Hindrances they could work around. As for their lives, they depended on their father being pope. “Are you sleeping?” Arthur asked after a while. 

“Not yet,” Merlin said. “But I soon will be.”

Arthur didn't suggest Merlin go to his room. Prudence be damned. “Then I will too.”

Spooning Merlin, Arthur went to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

“The French conquest of Naples isn't going to last long,” Father said with a pleased smile. “It is as we had foreseen. He can't keep the city.”

Arthur didn't point out that the idea had been Merlin's. A look at him told him Merlin didn't want that. “Last I heard he got in without even besieging it. The Aragon royal family were fleeing.”

Merlin shared a look with Arthur and held his head down. He wanted no attention from Father, that, at least seemed clear.

“Things have changed.” Father asked his master of ceremonies for one of the scrolls he was bearing. When he was handed the one he had been looking for, he read its contents.“There's a new alliance at play.”

Ambassadors and spies didn't report to Arthur. Arthur only had Myror to convey to him the latest news and he was only good for seedy tavern talk. Myror knew about killers for hire, which cardinal was willing to pay the most to jockey for the papal position, which assassin was the most popular with the elites. That had kept the Pendragons alive so far, but it wasn't information comparable to the kind a pope had at his disposal. “Which one?”

“Ludovico has changed sides once again,” Father said, rolling his eyes. “He now suspects the French of wanting Milan for themselves, which he really should have thought of before inviting them into the country, and troubling us so much into the bargain.” Father cursed under his breath then praised the Virgin Mary. “He sought our ear.” He showed both his palms. “And the favour of Venice as well as that of Ferdinand of Aragon, his most Catholic--” Father scoffed. “--Majesty as well as King of Sicily.”

Merlin stepped into the conversation. “And they are now in league and threatening France.” 

“Yes, my son.” Father looked at Merlin, but he didn't notice the changes in him, his new smile, his confident air, the quietness with which he hid them. “So Charles has left Naples behind and is currently retreating north, willing his armies faster back into France.” He clapped his hands together. “For which reason we should all rejoice. Charles hasn't deposed us. In fact we look rather good. Ostensibly, we've supported him, showed ourselves willing to crown him king of that pestilent city. We've kept our word.”

“But you've done anything but--” Arthur had heard his father admit as much but a moment before. “You're in cahoots with Venice.”

“The Serenissima.” Father inclined his head. “Indeed. But this the French King does not know.”

“Though he may suspect,” Merlin put in. 

Arthur looked to him. Merlin was changing. Once he wouldn't have made that remark. He wouldn't have thought to make it. He would have been content with daydreaming, eschewing his martial duties, living his life in the shadow of Father's activities. Lately, he'd become more thoughtful, more shrewd. He'd become, perhaps unwillingly, more interested in politics. Arthur had noticed how he'd effectively blandished the French King, how he'd got Father out of a scrape that could have potentially unseated him. And now he was quick to sniff out danger.

“Inconsequential.” Father cast the notion off with a wave of his hand. It was an impatient, brisk gesture. “Whether he believes us in league with Venice or not the fact remains he's making quickly for France.”

“He wants to avoid a military confrontation.” Arthur did some fast thinking of his own.

“That's surely his aim.” Father hoisted his shoulder. It was just the hint of a movement but it was there. “But that's no concern of ours. Whether he meets the coalition in battle or just hurries back to France, we've had what we wanted. And that is for him to remove himself from Italy.”

“He'll come back,” Merlin said. “But it's still good news.”

Father latched on to that. “So much so that we're officially celebrating. The Vatican will never be as resplendent as during our upcoming celebrations.”

Father had been right when he said the The See of Rome would shine. The reception hall was decked in gold. The guests in reds, purples and soft whites like the wings of a dove. Women and men mingled, in duos and groups, mixed together, tight in conversation, or hiding behind screens and secret alcoves, giggling, whispering. Cups overflowed with red and white wines. Petals lay on the floor and music wafted softly from cithara and dulcimer. Pages run to and fro like altar boys before a mass.

Mother was accoutred in pale mint; her gown having a train. She had gold lead in her hair, which blended with her pale locks. She was dancing with her husband while Father watched on. 

Arthur for his part had ditched his cassock. Though everyone knew he was a cardinal, he wanted to do without tonight. Arthur still didn't feel at ease in one, still wanted to cast it off for more than an evening. It was a lie he wore daily. But it wasn't time yet. He knew he had to keep his counsel, wait, be prudent. One day he'd be free of the regulations of the church. He would be once again a lay man. But that day was not today. He'd learnt how to be politic.

From the sidelines he observed the Roman elites. He drank little, preferring, unlike most of the others, to stay sober. He stood in the shadows of a tall marble statue with the body of a hero, fully formed muscles on display, as was its nudity. 

Merlin came to him when madrigals played. Like Arthur he had a glass but wasn't drinking from it. Like Arthur he was watching their mother dance. “This should dissuade me, shouldn't it?”

Arthur thought he understood. They had a mother in common. If she knew, she would be less than happy. The notion of the truth would shock her. She would ask herself where she'd gone wrong. “It should.” Anyone else would be. “But I'm not.”

“Neither am I.” Merlin stared ahead but veered subtly closer. The warmth of him put fire to Arthur's side. “Dissuaded.”

Arthur didn't say anything in response. There was a lot he should say now however. He should ask Merlin to stop it, to help him put an end to them. He ought to point out how unwise this was. If he was a good son, he should beg him not to tell their mother, to spare her the pain of this. But he was too happy with the result of his actions to do anything to complain. They watched the dance instead: they stood side by side, their bodies brushing. They drank and hovered closer. They veered apart but converged again. “So we're both satisfied with this?”

Merlin's mouth curled up at the side. 

“We're lucky,” Arthur said as he watched their father argue with his chamberlain. They were all alive, the members of their family. The French King had gone without deposing Father and without posing any more threats to Rome. Merlin and he had drifted so close the nearness had filled all the vacuum in Arthur's life. It was all new now. His love had been redirected, had found a channel. It had morphed and changed and become this thing of intimacy and fire. He didn't know whether it was right or wrong. If he really probed, he'd have to say wrong. And yet it had all worked out for him in the end. “Everything's going inordinately well for us.”

Merlin inclined his head. 

Arthur didn't want to think of the future, for it was too complicated. He thus rather liked Merlin's silence on the subject.

“Follow me into my rooms,” Merlin said.

Remembering he ought to be prudent, Arthur said. “I'll give it ten minutes.” 

Arthur watched Merlin go with his heart beating mightily in his throat. He didn't know how long it would last. How long they would be blessed by fortune. How long he was going to wear a cassock and make a lie of his life. But he knew he was going to take this, make a garb for it, and seize the day till God, if there was one, allowed.


End file.
